


Shelter Me

by pomegranatebitch



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Geralt is a good dad, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Politics, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, So much angst, but it will get better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:41:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27707089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pomegranatebitch/pseuds/pomegranatebitch
Summary: When running away from Nilfgaard leads Geralt and Ciri to the gates of Lettenhove, the Jaskier they meet is not the same person Geralt left on the mountaintop one year earlier. But with no options left, Geralt and Ciri must hide in plain sight while enemies come at them from all sides and Geralt struggles with admitting how he really feels for the man that was once his bard.Or, yet another adaptation of @spielzeugkaiser's amazing illustrated Undercover at Lettenhove!AU
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 13
Kudos: 84





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This series is going to be following @spielzeugkaiser's Undercover at Lettenhove!AU as closely as I can. If you haven't already seen her breathtaking art, you have to go check it out here: https://spielzeugkaiser.tumblr.com/post/626622363229929472

Winter had hit early this year. Snow had covered the Path and made travel almost impossible. Geralt and Ciri had been traveling together for almost half a year now since Cintra had crumbled around them. Nilfgaard had been on their heels for months, always just one step behind. Geralt had given up stopping in towns, the crowds were too dangerous and their descriptions too famous among the townspeople. Twice now innkeepers had alerted Nilfgaardian soldiers to their presence on the rare occasions that Geralt let them spend the night in small towns, hoping Ciri could rest in an actual bed, warm for once. Every time they escaped Nilfgaard’s clutches felt closer and closer and Geralt knew as well as Ciri that their luck couldn’t last forever.

It seemed to have run out two nights ago in fact, when a group of bandits stumbled across their camp in a shallow cave a few hundred yards off the nearest road. Geralt might have once been the greatest witcher on the continent, but after months of constant running and food getting scarcer and scarcer as the winter drove away animals to hunt and coin ran short without being able to take any contracts, he could feel the strain in his muscles. He had been pointedly ignoring the fact that in the past few weeks his ribs had begun sticking out. Ciri had to come first.

So when the bandits ran into their campsite, almost entirely by accident, Geralt hadn’t been prepared. And for the first time since he was just a boy training in Kaer Morhen, he was too slow. The attack caught him completely off guard and before Geralt could even grab his sword, a dagger had slipped just under his ribs, ripping into his side. Ciri’s screams still rang in his ears as the bandits had been frightened off by the young girl’s uncontrolled powers, but not before they got in a few harsh kicks to his right knee, one man stamping hard on left hand. Geralt could tell something in his hand was broken but there hadn’t been time to worry about that. He’d only clutched Ciri to his chest and ran off into the night, knowing that if there were any Nilfgaardian soldiers within 5 miles they would have heard her cries.

Even Roach, the one constant companion Geralt had had no matter what, had twisted an ankle after stumbling over an exposed root while they ran from Nilfgaard almost a month ago. There was nothing they could do. Ciri had covered her eyes and Geralt wished he could have looked away too as he had put his loyal mare down as quickly and painlessly as possible.

Now the snow was up to their shins and the nights were almost unbearable. It had been 3 days since Geralt had eaten anything, giving whatever bits of dried squirrel they had left to Ciri, no matter how much she protested.

Geralt was out of options, but his feet had somehow known to take them West through Redania until finally he recognized the city rising up on the horizon. With no where else to go, Geralt had headed to the only hope he had left: Lettenhove.

He’d visited once, at least a decade ago, when Jaskier had convinced Geralt to swing by so they could visit his sisters. Margaret and Tess had welcomed Geralt with open arms and fawned over him for a week, talking about how excited they were that their big brother had finally brought someone home. If witchers could blush, Geralt would have been red to his ears but instead he just grunted dismissively. Maybe it ran in the family, but the two young sisters seemed to see right through his facade just as Jaskier had always been able to tell what he was actually thinking.

Maybe, even if Jaskier had gone to ride out the war in Oxenfurt, they would remember him after all these years and take them in, if only just for the season. Normally, Geralt would never stoop to bowing before nobles, but he’d get down on his knees and beg if it meant keeping Ciri warm and fed and away from Nilfgaard’s prying eyes.

As they walked slowly into the town, Ciri bundled in the blue cloak she refused to part with and wrapped under Geralt’s arm to shield her from the wind, the townsfolk they passed shot them wary glances. Strangers were not to be trusted with Nilfgaard patrols wandering closer and closer to the free city every day. Geralt had heard talk, back when they still frequented taverns, that Lettenhove had become one of the leading resisting cities left in Redania. When Novigrad had fallen, the neighboring country had had little defense against the onslaught of Nilfgaardian soldiers. Somehow Lettenhove had survived, serving as a beacon of hope to the other remaining free cities in the North. Kaedwen was all but lost to the Black Sun, making a retreat to Kaer Morhen almost completely impossible. And with Geralt’s screaming knee, they would never make it up the mountain alive.

“How much farther?” Ciri asked, turning her face into Geralt’s aching side to block out the sharp winds. Geralt knew she didn’t mean to complain, she was just tired. He honestly admired how well she had held up over the last six months, even if he wished she had never been put in this position.

“I can see the keep’s doors now,” he replied.

Ciri just pressed her face hard against Geralt’s chest. “You can see everything,” she grumbled. If he’d been warm enough to feel his face, Geralt might have even smiled at that.

Geralt wasn’t terribly surprised that Lettenhove was still standing. Jaskier’s father, though they’d only met the once, had seemed like a capable ruler. He was always kind and clearly cared deeply for his son, but there was a seriousness etched into his brow, like he knew exactly how many lives were resting in his hands each day. Geralt had looked at him and wondered how he could have raised such an open and joyous man like Jaskier.

As they neared the stone walls surrounding the keep, Geralt could see four guards positioned at the sealed wooden gates. He yanked Ciri’s hood even further down her face, trying to keep her trademark ashen hair out of sight. Geralt was certainly the more recognizable of the two, but now that he carried his silver sword at his hip, he managed to pass as a human a bit better from afar. He’d had to sell his steel sword a while back in order to pay for new boots and a bedroll for Ciri. After that, it hadn’t felt right to carry his remaining sword on his back. He still went to reach for it all the time, feeling the pain of its absence like a missing limb. Now he had taken to carrying his silver sword on his hip so as not to draw attention.

Even his hair no longer proclaimed him to be the famous White Wolf anymore, as he’d shorn it off with his sword maybe two months ago when he just couldn’t seem to get a splatter of rotfiend guts out of the tangled mess. Not wanting to smell like a decomposing corpse, he’d hacked most of it off in a stream. Ciri had been less than impressed with his barbering skills and had bluntly told him that if he ever tried to cut her hair like that with only a sword, she would shave his eyebrows off while he slept.

The pale strands, now darkened and clumped together from mud, hung shaggily over his face, hopefully concealing his cat-like eyes from the ready view of the guards.

The first guard spotted them coming down the path and elbowed the one to his left. Instantly, their backs straightened and their spears thumped against the ground, crossing in front of the gates. This wasn’t going to be as easy as Geralt had hoped.

“State your name and your purpose!” the largest one bellowed over the blizzard’s winds.

Geralt probably should have thought of something to say, anything really, before arriving, but as Jaskier knew, planning ahead was never really his strong suit, let alone talking. “We need to see the Lord,” he said, his voice losing all its power in the howl of the wind.

“Names and purpose!” The largest guard hadn’t moved an inch.

Geralt opened his mouth but no words came out. Dammit, any name will do, any name…

“We are Filip and Fiona of Lyria and we demand an audience with the Lord of Lettenhove as is his duty to all who seek refuge.” The commanding voice hadn’t come from Geralt, but rather the bundle wrapped up in his cloak, now struggling free. Ciri’s chin jutted out, daring the guards to question her.

Before Geralt could grab her and pull her back into his shadow, the largest guard looked to the redheaded one. Both nodded briefly before the first guard turned back to Geralt, eyeing the sword at his side suspiciously.

“If you seek refuge, then you must first surrender all weaponry. No need for that anymore inside the keep.”

Geralt wanted to protest. Of course he did. After all, a witcher’s life depended on his swords and always having them at the ready. But seeing Ciri stubbornly standing in front of him, her head held high despite the many miles it had taken to reach Lettenhove, he knew he had no choice in the matter. This was their last option.

Handing his silver sword and dagger to the nearest armed guard, Geralt winced at the thought of never seeing them again. He didn’t have enough coin left to buy new ones if they were turned away. Well, he didn’t have any coin left, for that matter.

Now powerless against any threat that might be lurking within the walls of the keep, the soldiers uncrossed their spears, leaving room for Ciri and Geralt to enter through the massive doors which now swung open before them. Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, Geralt ducked his head and hurried the two of them inside before the guards could chance a closer look and recognize the faces that adorned every wanted poster North of the Pontar.

The inside of the keep only looked vaguely familiar as two other guards ushered them through the long stone hallways. Where Geralt had remembered the keep being a place of light and life, with tapestries strung up on every wall and music and laughter pouring out around every corner, now the walls were bare, their footsteps the only sound echoing off the hard stone. Now the keep only felt claustrophobic, as if Geralt was leading him and his daughter of surprise into their tombs. He tried to shake off the feeling of impending doom as the guards stopped abruptly before a wooden door and gestured for them to head inside.

The room was small, probably once a place for brief meetings between the staff. Two chairs were set against the back wall behind a simple oak table. To Ciri’s obvious delight, a fireplace was roaring along the east wall, with firewood piled high in the corner. Ciri immediately flung herself out of Geralt’s grasp and collapsed in a heap on the rug in front of the fire, holding out her hands to try to bring some life back to her frozen fingers.

Geralt scanned the room, looking for anything suspicious or any sign of a threat, but they were clearly alone.

“Someone will come see to you soon. Don’t leave this room or there will be consequences,” the guard at the door stated, leaving no room for questions. The door shut in Geralt’s face before he could even open his mouth to ask if Jaskier had returned to the city.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” Ciri mumbled from where she was crouched. She looked up at him through her messy hair which the wind had pulled from her hood. “I didn’t mean to show my face, I just…” Ciri trailed off, looking back to the fire.

“I know,” Geralt grunted. He shuffled around, not quite sure what to do with himself now that he didn’t have his swords on him. In the end, he stood beside her, resting one hand on the crown of her head, just needing to feel her to ground his thoughts. “You did well. I’ll talk to Lord Pankratz, see if we can rest here for the winter.”

Ciri just nodded, still rubbing at her hands.

“Go to sleep. I’ll be here,” he rumbled.

Curling up like a cat, Ciri snuggled down into the thick rug, her breath evening out with sleep after just a few minutes.

Geralt straightened his back, turning to the door. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, trying to look as intimidating as possible despite the burning pain that shot up his side every time he moved. His knee screamed at him to just sit down in one of the chairs, but he kept his vigil over his daughter, watching and waiting for anyone to open the door.

  
* * *

  
It was hours before anyone even walked by their room, let alone came in. By the time the door opened, Geralt was about to fall asleep too, the weeks with hardly any sleep finally catching up to him now that he had a chance to stop and breathe. Geralt immediately jumped to attention when the doorknob rattled and the door swung open. He had expected to be greeted by the friendly lines of Jaskier’s father’s face or maybe even the broad smile of one of Jaskier’s sisters who might have heard about the arrival of a grumpy pale haired man with a sword and connected the dots themselves.

Instead, a short balding man that Geralt didn’t recognize at all shuffled inside before closing the door behind him. Geralt wasn’t sure if this man was dangerous, but he certainly didn’t look it. He sneezed into a well worn handkerchief before speaking.

“So, uh, you are the family seeking refuge in the Lord’s lands, Mr. — er…”

Geralt glanced at Ciri. “Filip is fine.”

“Filip, right. Well you see, ah, with the war ongoing we must be wary of travelers and—”

“Where is Jaskier?” He didn’t have time for all this.

“— we must protect the palace from external threats, though if you’d like to seek asylum—”

“Where is Jaskier?”

“— we shall have you conduct a brief interview with one of our,” another sneeze, “sorceresses, apologies, to verify your statements are truth.” The man tucked his handkerchief back into his coat pocket, finally meeting Geralt’s eye.

Geralt’s teeth were bared in clear frustration. He could barely get the words out, his nerves making him nearly shake. “Where. Is. Jaskier.”

The short man squinted up at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Jaskier!” Geralt all but yelled, “The Viscount of this town! Who else?”

“I don’t quite understand what you mean, but our Lord in this town is the Viscount Julian.”

“Sure, whatever,” Geralt couldn’t remember Jaskier’s father’s name but that sounded a bit familiar. “Him. I need to speak to him. Now.”

The man seemed taken aback at the mere thought of it. “Why our Lord is a busy man! While I’m sure he would like to meet with every one of his subjects, the war—”

“I’m sure, but I’m a…an old friend…of the family. Just tell him an old friend needs to see him.”

“As an adviser to the Lord, I can assure you that I am perfectly capable of handling your situation—”

“Now!” Geralt finally yelled, cutting him off again.

While the man looked unsatisfied, he didn’t seem to want to argue with Geralt any longer. “I’ll see what I can do.” And with a short nod of his head, the adviser was out of the room a moment later.

Geralt let out a long sigh, scrubbing his good hand through his hair, tearing at the strands. After so long on the road, all he wanted was to see a friendly face. If it hadn’t been for Ciri, still curled up by the fire watching him, he would have torn through this castle looking for any of Jaskier’s family himself, injuries be damned.

Instead though, he looked down at his adopted daughter and tried to keep a calm face as he sunk down next to her. Ciri wasted no time in curling up against his thigh, tangling one little fist in his shirt. He pulled his cloak so it covered her shoulders as well and within a few minutes, her breaths had evened out again with sleep. Looking down at her like this, all wrapped up against his side, she looked so painfully small.

He should have explained to her who Jaskier was, especially seeing as he had led her right into Jaskier’s home, but even after all these years Geralt still didn’t have the words to explain who Jaskier was to him.

An hour or so later, spent only watching the fire crackle and occasionally adding more logs, a member of the kitchen staff came in carrying a large platter of meats, cheeses, and even some dried fruit that Geralt knew must be a rare treat this deep into winter. Ciri had awoken immediately, not so much from the sound of the door but rather the intoxicating smells of foods that they hadn’t been able to enjoy in months.

Ciri tore apart the platter which was enough to feed several grown men, while Geralt chewed slowly on some of the cured meats. Even just a little food made his long-starved stomach ache, but he didn’t want to pass up the chance to eat entirely.

Ciri had just been finishing up the last of the dried figs as the door swung open again. Without thinking, Geralt yanked Ciri behind him, wishing once again that he still had his swords no matter how useless he would ultimately be in a fight right now. But when Geralt finally saw who entered the room, his knees felt even more useless as he fought to stay upright.

There, standing before him, was the face of his closest friend and the man he’d never been brave enough to admit he loved.

“Jaskier?” The word barely made it past his lips.

Jaskier, for his part, looked no less startled than him to be seeing Geralt in his keep clutching a half feral girl with mud dried in her hair. But whatever shock Jaskier felt was quickly covered up with a mask of passivity. Geralt barely recognized him like this: his face a smooth, emotionless slate with a subdued but clearly expensive gray doublet buttoned all the way up to his neck. Half a dozen armed guards had flooded in behind Jaskier, along with the balding adviser from before and a tall man with a perfectly trimmed black beard and distrusting eyes.

Geralt’s eyes darted between everyone in the room, his hand still firmly gripping Ciri’s arm as he held her behind his legs, before his gaze finally settled on the face he’d been dreaming of for the past year.

When Jaskier finally spoke, his voice had none of the vibrant joy or sing-song quality Geralt had come to know. It was as lifeless as the bodies that had littered the trail Geralt had trekked to come here.

“And you are Filip of Lyria? I understand you have requested my audience in order to plead for asylum within the walls of my keep.”

“What is happening here, J—”

“You may address me as ‘my Lord’.”

Geralt’s mouth snapped shut. Slowly, he took a long look at Jaskier. His back was perfectly straight with no typical casual slouch to his shoulders. He wore a sword at his belt even though Geralt knew he was shit with anything other than a lute, having tried to train the bard himself on several occasions, mostly after a few of the bard’s near-death experiences, but Jaskier had always protested saying he wasn’t meant to wield a sword, only sing about the heroes who did.

Even Jaskier’s mouth was set in a careful line, betraying nothing of what was surely running through his mind. With a start, Geralt realized this was the first time in all their years together that he wasn’t able to read Jaskier’s face like an open book.

Whoever was standing before him, Geralt knew he was not the man he had once ate with around a campfire and slept next to when the night’s got too cold for Jaskier’s human body. Like too many, that man had died in the war.

With one shaking, pained step at a time, Geralt crossed the short distance between them. For a second, Geralt thought he saw the shadow of concern brush across Jaskier’s face as Geralt put too much weight on his bad leg and flinched. But as quickly as the look had come, it vanished as well, leaving Geralt questioning if he had ever actually seen anything in the first place.

Face to face with Jaskier, Geralt tucked one arm behind his back and bent low at the waist, trying to imitate as best he could all the nobles he had seen bow before Kings and Princesses at the banquets Jaskier had always dragged him to. Jaskier raised his hand slightly and Geralt took it in his own gloved hand as carefully as he handled the flower petals he mixed into his potions.

The kiss was more of just a brush of lips across knuckles, but Geralt didn’t think he imagined the way Jaskier’s fingertips tightened against his own.

“My Lord,” Geralt breathed, soft enough that he knew only Jaskier heard him.

Geralt straightened up as best he could, his side protesting sharply.

“My, uh, daughter, Fiona, and I… we have nowhere to stay. The war… please, she needs food and a bed. I can work in exchange for her protection.” Geralt deliberately kept his eyes fixed on Jaskier’s boots, unable to look him in the eye and lie.

Jaskier, for his part, didn’t seem to notice or take offense. He clasped his hands in front of him and stated curtly, “Well I’m sure we’ll be able to find you work within the keep. No man who arrives at my gates asking for shelter shall be turned away. I’ll have my guards bring you to a room you can use for now.”

With that, Jaskier spun on his heel and strode out of the room, his guards falling in step behind him. The sorcerer was last to leave, eyes scanning him up and down knowingly. Geralt knew the mage wouldn’t have missed the slit-pupiled yellow eyes the same way the other guards had. And, largely thanks to Jaskier himself, Geralt’s pale hair easily identified him out of all other witchers as the legendary White Wolf of Kaer Morhen. And given the wanted posters hanging on every notice board in Redania, the mage was sure to have put two and two together as to who the ashen hair girl traveling with him was. Geralt could only hope that the mage knew to keep what he learned to himself. After all, Jaskier had agreed to take them in, no questions asked.

A small servant woman with a kind smile lingered behind. “I can show you to your rooms now if you’d like. I’m sure we can get you a bath sent up straight away.” She shot a warm smile at Ciri who still hid behind Geralt’s legs. “I’ll make sure they get it nice and hot too, little one. Got to get those growing bones of yours warmed up from the chill out there. We don’t want a little popsicle wandering the halls!”

Ciri giggled a little and that alone made Geralt’s heart feel a bit lighter. He hadn’t heard Ciri laugh in what felt like ages.

“Oh good,” the woman laughed back. “Let’s get going then, shall we?”

With that, Geralt followed her out of the room, but not before chancing a quick glance back over his shoulder and down the long hallway, hoping to maybe catch another glimpse of the man he once knew.

Only torchlight flickered in the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The geography of the continent is based on my poor understanding of places in the video game so sorry if things are a bit off.
> 
> This is my first time writing fic so things might be a bit rough around the edges.
> 
> I'll be updating this whenever I can, and should have another chapter or two up soon. I won't be able to stick to any hard and fast schedule because I'm a university student and shit gets crazy this time of year but with the four day weekend I'm hoping to get some time to write so I can update this in the next few days.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr @pomegranatebitch. Feel free to climb in my inbox, I love hearing from people!
> 
> Once again I am just basking in the amazingness of @spielzeugkaiser's incredible art and shout out to her AU for finally inspiring me to write fanfic after reading it for the past decade or so. But also, be warned that tags for this piece will change as I update, so ratings and warnings will also change. If you aren't comfortable with some of the triggers in her series, be warned that I'll be following wherever it leads. I'll give trigger warnings before any particularly triggering chapters.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened since Geralt left Jaskier on the mountain top?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the love to [Octinary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Octinary) for beta-ing this chapter. It would be half a hot mess without her feedback.
> 
> This is a bit shorter than my other chapters will usually be but we just need a little backstory before we really get going :) hope y'all enjoy!

“It’s so big!” Ciri shrieked as she flung herself on their bed and rolled herself up in the furs that had been laid out for them. “A whole real bed that doesn’t smell like gross ale!”

Jaskier had been more than generous with the room he had assigned to the two of them and Ciri couldn’t have been more thrilled after so many hard months sleeping in the woods. Even during the coldest nights, they hadn’t been able to light a fire half the time in case Nilfgaardian soldiers spotted the smoke. Ciri liked to ramble about how one day she would become the best witcher on the Continent, but still the Path was no place for a child. Ciri was a princess and used to getting nice things, how could the small comforts Geralt tried to give her ever measure up? Geralt wanted to be able to give her nice things, to let her have some semblance of normalcy, so Jaskier giving them this large room, likely meant for visiting nobles, made Geralt’s shoulders feel a little bit lighter.

Even with his side aching and his knee feeling like it would give out, Geralt was more than content to watch as Ciri managed to steal all the furs and blankets into a big cocoon, giggling the whole while.

A stuttering knock came at the door and the adviser from before poked his head into their room.

“Sir? A moment please?”

Geralt nodded and the man pushed his way into the room.

“Yes, alright, just a few matters to discuss. I’ve talked with the lord and—”

“He said something about me?” Geralt wasn’t sure whether to be concerned or excited.

“Well yes, sir, we have to give you work assignments for your time here. Lord Julian suggested that perhaps the young Fiona might be interested in working as an apprentice of sorts to the keep’s laundress, Maria. I can assure you that the young lady will be in good hands with her.”

Ciri’s head popped out of the blanket roll, nearly making the poor man jump out of his skin. “Yes! Yes! Please, Ge— Filip, can I? I’m so _bored_!” she whined, dragging out the last word.

Ciri’s energy would have to go somewhere, and Geralt knew keeping her locked up in their room all day would never work. And if Jaskier thought it was a good idea… “You’re going to have to work hard. And no running off.” Geralt tried to give her his best serious glare but it did nothing to Ciri’s enthusiasm.

“I promise!” Ciri squealed giddily. Who knew a princess would ever be so excited about doing laundry? But after six months with only Geralt as a conversational partner, he couldn’t really blame her.

Geralt wanted to ask more about who Ciri would be working with and how he could know she would be kept safe, but he was afraid to say anything that might make the man look twice at the little girl currently ducking her head back under the covers. While the advisers and guards so far seemed clueless, surely Jaskier had figured out who Ciri was. After all, there weren’t many other explanations for why Geralt would have acquired a daughter in the past year and even Geralt had to admit that her resemblance to Pavetta was striking. For now, he’d just have to put his trust in Jaskier’s hands and hope he knew what he was doing.

He turned back to the adviser. “And what did the, uh, lord, have in mind for my position?” As much as Geralt wanted to keep an eye on Ciri, he hoped Jaskier hadn’t also suggested he work with the keep’s laundress. After all, he wore all black for a reason: it hid the monster guts. Surely Jaskier wouldn’t put the washing of delicate silks and linens in Geralt’s clumsy hands.

The adviser shuffled his feet, twisting a gold ring on his right hand. “Actually, Lord Julian insisted that you serve as his personal guard for the time being. While you aren’t a formally trained member of the viscount’s guard, the lord was willing to make an exception—”

“Yes,” Geralt interrupted yet again, not able to get the words out fast enough. “I’ll do it, whatever he needs.”

Despite being two heads shorter than the witcher, the adviser glared up Geralt, clearly annoyed with the constant interruptions. Geralt couldn’t help that the man just talked too much.

“Yes, well I don’t know why a farmer from Lyria,” his eyes scanned Geralt from head to toe and his mouth twisted in disapproval, “would be qualified to guard the personal safety of the future King of the North, but the lord has commanded it.” Geralt got the distinct feeling that the adviser had said a few choice things about that decision in his meeting with Jaskier.

Though the insult makes Geralt’s skin prickle, it’s not the disdain that makes Geralt almost do a double take. “Future King of the North?” Geralt knew Jaskier was set to inherit the viscount title from his father, but he’d certainly never mentioned anything about being a king before. “And what happened to the last viscount here? Lord…”

“Lord Janusz, the late father of Viscount Julian. Truly, does no news reach Lyria these days? Have you been too busy tending to your crops to listen to what is going on?” the man sneered.

“I’ve been…traveling,” Geralt offered.

“Well if you must insist on being uninformed, you should at least know while you live under our lord’s generosity how he came to the title.” He pulled out his handkerchief again, coughing roughly into it before continuing. “Nine months ago Nilfgaard intercepted the late viscount’s family as they traveled to a noble wedding in southern Redania. Their guards were not equipped to fight off half an army. When news of the viscount’s murder reached Lettenhove, we immediately informed Lord Julian, who was teaching at Oxenfurt Academy at the time. Our lord has bravely taken up the mantle of his late father and has steadfastly held Lettenhove from the Black Sun’s capture.”

Nine months ago…that would have been just weeks after Geralt had left Jaskier standing on that mountain top. How hadn’t he heard about this? All Geralt could imagine was Jaskier finding out the news and having to travel home alone, knowing his father wouldn’t be there to welcome him back. He shouldn’t have had to face that alone.

“But, what about Tess? And Peggy? Are they still staying here in Lettenhove?” Jaskier’s sisters were loyal to their big brother above all else, but maybe they’d speak with Geralt even if Jaskier was pretending he didn’t exist. If Geralt was being honest, he had missed their easy friendship. Just like their brother, the two girls had never treated Geralt like a monster, but as a man they could gossip and laugh around. Geralt’s general gruff attitude and silence had never managed to scare them off.

The adviser gave him a long look. Geralt had no reason to know about Jaskier’s sisters, especially if he didn’t even know who the current viscount of Lettenhove was. Geralt mentally chastised himself; he had to keep his emotions in check or he’d let something slip. But in the end, the adviser didn’t question him.

The man sniffed, taking pause before he said in a flat, practiced voice, “There were no survivors.”

Geralt just kept staring at the man in front of him, the words seeming meaningless. No survivors? But that wasn’t possible. That wasn’t possible because surely the world would stop on its axis without the bright laughter and the friendly teasing of Jaskier’s little sisters. The adviser had to be lying, making up a story so as to protect his lord. Because if he was telling the truth that would mean that Geralt hadn’t been there for Jaskier when he needed him most. That would mean that Geralt had let the love of his life bury his baby sisters alone. And that wasn’t a world in which Geralt could live with himself.

The adviser just kept talking, as if Geralt’s world wasn’t coming apart at the seams. “Well, with almost all of Redania falling to Nilfgaard not long afterwards, Lettenhove was left as one of the few remaining free cities in the North, and certainly the most well equipped to resist these invaders.”

“But you have no large armies?” It was all Geralt could think to say.

“No, we’ve got better,” the adviser replied. Geralt’s eyebrows pinched together in confusion. “We’ve got Lord Julian.”

All of Geralt’s words had dried up, so the silence in the room hung heavy and rotting in the air between them. Nothing made sense anymore, and Geralt’s lack of sleep made his thoughts grind to a halt. Lord Julian? Future King of the North? Jaskier’s family? Surely Geralt was going to wake up any minute now and be back in his and Ciri’s shared bedroll, laid out in a forest clearing. He just had to wake up.

The adviser was the first to cut through the thick silence. “You’ll both report for your assignments at 8 tomorrow morning. Someone will come and fetch you.”

Geralt blinked a few times and only then noticed that the man had left the room and he was left staring at a closed door.

“Geralt?” Ciri’s whisper was quiet enough and muffled under the furs so that a human ear wouldn’t have been able to hear her, but Geralt’s witcher senses picked up her small voice.

Jerking his head as if to shake off a nightmare, he padded over to his daughter and gingerly sat down on the edge of the bed. One big hand pushed her tangled hair out of her eyes and came to rest on the side of her head. Ciri turned her face to half hide herself against his palm, but she kept her gaze firmly fixed with his.

“You keep asking about Jaskier,” her voice trails off a little. “Who is he? Why do you trust him so much? Couldn’t he just turn us over for the reward?”

Geralt shook his head. “No, no, not Jaskier.” He sat for a minute, trying to find the right words for who Jaskier was to him, but as always he came up short. “Jaskier, or I guess Lord Julian now, well…he’s someone I knew. A friend. In a different life.”

“What if he’s different now, in this life?” All of the joy that had been on Ciri’s face a few minutes earlier had melted back into anxiety. Geralt rubbed a thumb between her eyebrows where a crease too deep for her age had formed. She relaxed just an inch.

“Ciri, you know I’d protect you with my life right?” he started.

Ciri gave a small nod.

“And that I won’t let anyone take you away from me?”

She nodded again.

“Well, Jaskier is one of the few people I trust to keep you as safe as I would.”

Ciri brightened a little at that. “Like Aunt Yenna? And Grandpa Vesemir and Uncle Eskel and Uncle Lambert?”

Geralt’s mouth tried to twist itself into a smile, but hearing their names aloud hurt more than he realized. He still hadn’t heard anything from Yennefer since the Battle of Sodden Hill. The only reason he knew she was still alive was because he could still feel the light pull of destiny in his chest, always keeping them orbiting each other even if they’d fallen out of love long ago.

He knew Vesemir would be worrying right now. With this last snow blanketing the northern half of the Continent, the path up the mountain was surely blocked. Vesemir would now know that Geralt wouldn’t be coming home this year, and he’d be left alone all winter to wonder what might have happened to his adopted son: If he had wintered somewhere else, if he was injured, if he was dead.

Geralt could only hope that Eskel and Lambert had made it back to Kaer Morhen before the early snow. Returning home for the winter was the only way they knew that the others were still alive and had survived another year on the Path. Geralt had to imagine his brothers sprawled out on the furs before the roaring fireplace, sharing stories from the past year with each other. He had to imagine them alive and healthy and happy or else he wasn’t sure he’d be able to go on. He’d see them again one day and they’d all laugh about how scared the others were, pretending that the thought of their brothers’ deaths hadn’t kept them awake for countless nights.

“Yes,” Geralt finally whispered back. “Just like your aunt and uncles and Vesemir. You know how much I trust them. Well that’s how much I trust Jaskier.”

Ciri nodded slowly, trying to read his face. She seemed to accept that she could trust Jaskier not to sell them out to Nilfgaard for a few crowns, but it was clear that she’d want more answers later. For now though, with such a warm and comfortable bed making the fight against sleep impossible, this was enough.

Ciri’s eyelids drooped and despite her attempts to blink them back open, sleep carried her away quickly. Geralt dropped a quick kiss to her hairline before turning to take off his boots.

Even though he trusted Jaskier to keep him and his daughter safe, sleeping in a new place never quite felt right, especially with people walking the halls that he didn’t know. Maybe he could just meditate for a few hours, try and rest his aching muscles for a little bit before work began tomorrow.

But as Geralt nudged Ciri over, stealing one of the many blankets she’d piled around herself, he found his own eyes struggling to stay open. Before Geralt could give it another thought, his mind slipped into a comfortable sleep, letting his body rest for the first time in months with the knowledge that finally, after countless nights spent running for their lives, here in Jaskier’s keep they were safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I should have the next (probably quite long) chapter up in the next week!
> 
> Once again, this is based on [spielzeugkaiser's](https://spielzeugkaiser.tumblr.com/) amazing artwork, and if you can find me on tumblr [@pomegranatebitch](https://pomegranatebitch.tumblr.com/)


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